


cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive

by mirrorchord



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Crying, First Time, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorchord/pseuds/mirrorchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic for no_tags 2015, prompt #5: Patrick/Pete, sex tears.</p><p>A tiny part of him was afraid this was maybe too intimate for a Ninja Turtles marathon, but he stopped listening to that part after two seconds, focusing instead on the texture of the lint on his shirt, the feel of his dry lips, and the sound of Patrick climbing inside the van.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has an element or two of dubcon, but everyone is very much consenting.

The second—or maybe the third—time Gabe Saporta invited the boys from Fall Out Boy to his place for drinks, he looked between Pete and Patrick, smacked a hand heavy on Pete’s shoulder, and raised a mysterious eyebrow. Patrick was busy picking the ideal tortilla chip from the yellow bowl on the countertop, and Pete just furrowed his brows. He hadn’t entirely picked up on Saporta signals yet.

Gabe just shrugged and dipped another chip in the hummus. “You’ve got a great thing going here, boys,” he said, and Pete passed it off as just another quirk of his. At least on the surface. There was nothing Pete Wentz didn’t turn over in his head, just a little bit.

*

The sun was slanting orange-pink through the bare, deadened trees in the parking lot, and it was hard to tell whether the night was more life or decay. Pete slumped against the van and considered taking a shower, seriously considered it—he’d worn this particular gray hoodie three days this week, and it was starting to merge with the sweat on his skin—but he decided against it, just peeled the hoodie off instead. It was probably in the 40s, chilly, but the air felt good against his arms as he shook them out; the cold metal of the van was a nice shock to his skin.

“Patrick,” he yelled across the lot. “Hey, Patrick. You wanna get some dinner?”

Patrick turned around and trudged back across the asphalt to hear him better. He took his gray cap off, pushed the hair over his ears, and put it back on. “What?”

“Dinner, Patrick. Dinner and a movie? You wanna crash at my place tonight? What’s up, yo. How you doing.” Pete shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Uh,” Patrick said. He looked at Pete a little askance. “Sure? You wanna get some Subway and watch Ninja Turtles in the van?”

They were in Jersey, a little too far to go home for dinner. It’s okay, Pete only meant it metaphorically anyway. “That sounds great,” he said.

*

Andy and Joe had fucked off to “the best grocery store in Jersey, seriously, you guys,” which Pete was a little suspicious of, but he took advantage of the quiet to shove all the blankets on the raggedy couch and snuggle up in them. A tiny part of him was afraid this was maybe too intimate for a Ninja Turtles marathon, but he stopped listening to that part after two seconds, focusing instead on the texture of the lint on his shirt, the feel of his dry lips, and the sound of Patrick climbing inside the van.

“Hey,” he said, grinning at Patrick’s hoodie, the quirk of his mouth. “I set everything up for us. There’s even hot chocolate.”

“Sounds perfect,” Patrick said, surveying the place. “Thanks, Pete.” He sounded maybe a little confused, but fuck that, Pete was good at being cozy if he wanted to. Patrick would learn.

They watched two episodes of Ninja Turtles, followed by two episodes of Fullmetal Alchemist, and Pete said Patrick was obviously Al, but Patrick said he could be Mustang if he wanted, to which Pete said, “Yeah, right,” and there was a brief scuffle.

Patrick set his hot chocolate down on the armrest and stared at Pete for a second before pouncing. It would have been hilarious except Patrick’s hands were really quite solid on his arms, and dangerously close to his armpits, and Pete found himself trying not to knee Patrick in the balls after all, Pete found himself too busy feeling oddly paralyzed by Patrick’s eyes on him, and there was a chocolate spill on the sofa.

Pete paused the fight to wipe his hand on it and lick his fingers. Patrick said, “Oh my god,” and looked away.

*

Patrick, Pete knew, was far more than he let on. It probably came from being constantly underestimated as a child—Pete didn’t know, he wasn’t really one for psychoanalysis—but when dudes with microphones at Warped Tour asked Pete “what his plans were” for the band, when they described Pete as the “current scene sensation,” Patrick would just smile and look away. It took a lot to draw him out.

Pete was willing to make the effort.

“C’mon, Patrick,” he said, in his best wheedling voice. “Haven’t you ever wanted to roleplay—uh, I dunno, David Bowie and his adoring fan? Elvis Costello? Fuckin’—”

“Ugh, no,” Patrick said. “Dude. Elvis Costello’s like a god. I can’t be him.”

“Why the fuck not?” Pete said. “Or like—ooh, I know.” He turned to face Patrick, sitting sideways on the couch. “You could be _Napoleon_.”

“Wow—wow, _fuck_ you,” Patrick said. “Wow.” He twisted around and found a pillow, throwing it halfheartedly at Pete. “What does that make you, his one-inch-taller concubine?”

“Hot,” Pete said, and ducked.

*

“No, but seriously,” Pete said. “What about, dude. What about I’m the blushing virgin who’s never been fucked in the ass and you _deflower_ me.”

Patrick turned around, cereal box still tilted in his hand. “Wentz. Haven’t you _really_ never been fucked by a dude, anyway?”

“Yes, but Patrick, that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is—the point is,” Pete said, his hands suddenly curling at his sides, “I want you to make me stop being scared of it.”

Patrick tilted his head speculatively. Pete looked down at himself, took a shaky breath, and left the kitchen.

He’d count that as a win. That was enough soul-baring for tonight.

*

“Pete,” Patrick said, and Pete started. He’d thought the gaming couch was safe for now. It just wasn’t becoming of a rockstar to get embarrassed every time he looked at his lead singer, and they were coming up on a show tonight.

He grinned up at Patrick. “Hey, Patrick,” he said. “What’s up?” Plausible deniability, said the voice of reason in the back of his head, but it sounded kind of mocking.

“I was thinking,” Patrick said, and leaned over the back of the sofa, his hair flopping over his eyes. His jawline was starting to get kind of strong, Pete thought, maybe from all the singing? Did it work like that? Anyway, it was a great contrast with the softness of his face. His eyes were sharp, though. Pete shoved his hands in between the couch cushions. 

“Yeah?” he said.

Patrick put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into the sofa. His hand was heavy on Pete’s collarbone, his fingers edging just under his shirt. “Room with me tonight, okay?” he said, and Pete couldn’t refuse. Not for a million bucks.

*

The show that night was—well, it was kind of shitty, in the sense that the venue had shitty lighting and a bad sound system and too little floor space, but other than that, it was fucking _awesome_. Not that Pete could expect any less, with Patrick smiling beatifically at the audience in between “Saturday” and “Dead on Arrival,” and actually getting in _Pete’s_ space on stage, for once, instead of the other way around. Pete dropped his pick twice, and if he wasn’t seeing it wrong, Patrick seemed to think that was funny.

Well, fuck him, Pete thought, with his best impression of indignation, and then smiled the nervous-excitement smile that had started all the great things in his life. _I’m getting laid_ , he thought, bouncing on his feet, and then decided that was crossing some kind of dumb straight boy line, and then decided he didn’t care.

*

“So,” Patrick said, grinning at Pete after the show. He rubbed a towel over the back of his neck. “Have you thought about how you’re gonna manage my whole dick?”

“Oh my god, Patrick. You’re such an asshole.”

“I try,” Patrick said, and ducked his head to hide a smile. “Anyway. I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Go ahead,” Pete said, waving magnanimously. “Get clean and shit. I’m gonna bathe in my own soil.” He climbed on the bed, rumpling the covers for maximum comfort.

The hotel had _Entertainment Weekly_ and _Sports Illustrated_ on the nightstand, neither of which really piqued Pete’s taste right now, so he switched on the TV and flipped through to _Family Feud_ for some restless yelling at the screen.

“I can’t believe Dracula won that one,” Pete said, when Patrick came out of the shower. “Everyone knows I make a way better vampire.”

“I don’t think they know,” said Patrick. He threw his towel on the dresser and fixed Pete with a look.

“Uh,” Pete said, staring at Patrick’s pale-ass arms. “Should I take off my clothes?”

“No,” Patrick said. He climbed on the bed and pushed Pete down, a purposeful hand on his chest. “Let me do that.”

“Oh,” said Pete, dumbly.

Patrick kissed his arm and looked at him like the most angelic thing on the planet. Then he undid Pete’s buttons.

His hands were kind of cold, still a little damp from the shower, and Pete arched up when Patrick reached his stomach. He could barely believe this was happening. He couldn’t believe Patrick would want to do this. He was gonna hold on till the end of _time._

“Patrick,” Pete said, his chest clenching under cold hands, “Patrick, I love you.”

“I know,” said Patrick, and he looked so genuinely happy about it that Pete could die. He kissed Pete’s nose.

Then he got serious. He put a hand on Pete’s dick. Through his jeans, all that served to do was make Pete’s dick aware that it needed more.

“C’mon, Patrick,” Pete said.

Patrick flicked him in the thigh. “Not yet,” he said. “Turn over.”

God, okay, Pete thought, and turned over. It was weird not being able to see. He twisted his head back around to look, and Patrick shoved his face back into the pillow with a hand on the back of his neck. It was unnervingly, electrifyingly hot.

Patrick put a hand on his ass and squeezed. He leaned over behind Pete’s ear. “Do you know how many people on the internet want to be me right now,” he said, and hit him.

Pete yelped. “Oh my god,” he said, laughing helplessly, but his face was getting red. Maybe it was just supposed to be funny, but as far as his body was concerned this was deeply sexy. He pushed back against Patrick’s hand and turned his face into the pillow, suddenly grateful for the place to hide.

Patrick hooked his fingers into Pete’s jeans, shuffled over behind him, and reached around to pop his buttons. Pete practically curled up around his arm, but it was gone in a moment, and Patrick’s hand was touching his bare skin as he pulled his jeans down.

Pete kicked a little to help and breathed into the pillow. Patrick’s fingers brushed the sensitive skin between Pete’s cheeks; Patrick’s hand delved deeper, rubbing Pete’s ass like a gentle, loosening massage. Pete flopped back down into the bed. He felt hot all over.

When Patrick’s fingers reached his hole, Pete tensed up a little. They were so light he could barely tell, he wasn’t sure when Patrick would go further, and it was agonizing. “Patrick,” he said, and turned his head again.

Patrick moved his hands to Pete’s hips and tugged until he was up on his knees. “Yeah,” he said. “Hi,” he said. Pete realized this was getting Patrick off, and that was suddenly enough for him to let go, a rush of want coming over him.

“Patrick. Just fuck me,” he said.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. Pete could practically hear him nod. “Okay.”

Patrick reached off the bed for the lube and came back. His fingers were cold this time, but one slipped in before Pete could even register it. “Holy shit,” Pete said, and let his head fall back down. “Uh.”

“Yep,” Patrick said, sounding smug this time. He pushed his finger in further, twisted it around a bit. The second was way easier that Pete had been led to believe by the internet. The lube squelched a little, made a dumb sound, and Pete could feel himself opening up, could feel it hot in his dick, sweating.

Patrick came up to lean over him, and suddenly Pete could feel Patrick’s dick, wet and slippery, settling into the crack of his ass. It was hotter than it had any right to be. Pete was losing the ability to think straight. “Oh god, Patrick,” he said.

Patrick’s grip turned hard and careless on his hip. “Pete,” he said. His voice was _so different_. Fuck. “You’re gonna give me a little more now, Pete,” Patrick said.

Like that was the switch turning the key in Pete’s brain, or something, there was nothing in him except _yes_. Of course. He would give Patrick anything he wanted.

Patrick disappeared for a second, but Pete was barely there to notice. He could’ve probably fallen asleep right now, if it weren’t for the pulsating warmth through his entire body, reminding him of the need to come.

But Patrick’s dick pushing up against his hole woke him up pretty quick. “Oh god,” he gasped, and drew his knees up involuntarily. It was a lot. It was maybe too much. “Please,” he said mindlessly, “please, I’m scared.”

Patrick moved his hand to the small of Pete’s back, heavy and warm and settling. “Are you,” he said.

Pete nodded into the pillow. Once he’d started he couldn’t stop. “Yeah,” he said, sounding weak and shaky and wrecked. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop now.”

Patrick laughed a trembling, unsteady laugh. “Jesus, Pete,” he said. “When you do something you fucking do it, don’t you.”

That sounded about right. Pete nodded. Patrick moved his hand to Pete’s hip, steady and reassuring. He brushed the hair out of Pete’s eyes. Pete looked at him. Patrick was fucking glowing, sweat-tinged need with an edge of concern.

Pete fisted his hands clumsily in the blankets. “Please just make me,” he said.

Something broke. “Yeah,” Patrick said, and it came out suddenly harsh, one hand reaching for Pete’s dick as he pushed forward.

It hurt. It did hurt, just maybe a little, but it washed over Pete quickly, subsumed itself in a haze of sudden stretch and pull and _too much_ and Patrick was _in_ him, slick and unbearable and suddenly not even enough. Pete wanted him to move. He desperately wanted Patrick to move.

Pete sobbed. He couldn’t think, he just shook under Patrick’s arms, said “please,” trembling and wet-faced. He felt destroyed. He felt helpless. Right now Patrick could do anything to him; he was strong enough to move Pete with a finger.

Patrick pushed his hips forward, his dick opening Pete up, making him his. “God,” he said. He grabbed Pete by the shoulders, kissed him on the back of his neck. Patrick’s face was warm and soft and delighted. “You could stay like this forever, couldn’t you. God, you’re so—” Patrick squeezed his fingers into the soft skin at Pete’s waist, forceful, like he couldn’t help it. He shoved into Pete and held him there, shaking.

The sudden warmth of Patrick’s come was almost too hot. Pete felt overheated, out-of-body, out of _words._ “Mmh,” he said. He grasped for Patrick’s hand.

Patrick reached for Pete’s dick and just _held_ it, his hair brushing Pete’s back. He rubbed his thumb around the head, slid his hand wherever it would go, and Pete sobbed. “Please, please,” he said, and Patrick finally took a hold of him and squeezed. Pete came.

 _Finally_ , he thought, light filtering in through his eyelids again, Patrick’s breathing slowly steadying itself. He opened his eyes. Patrick was braced over him, hands on either side of Pete’s arms, and when Pete looked at him, he smiled so hard he put a hand over his mouth.

Pete took a great big gulping breath and let it out. Patrick flopped down on the bed next to him. Pete smiled stupidly into the pillow. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself,” Patrick said. “How you doing?”

“Great,” Pete said, “holy shit.”

“Yeah.” Patrick nodded. “Fucking hell, Pete, you _cried_. I can’t believe you wanted me—” Patrick pressed his thumb into Pete’s eye circles, rubbing the wetness dry. He shook his head. “You’re a fucking marvel.”

“Your _dick_ is a fucking marvel,” Pete said.

Patrick surged up and kissed him on the forehead. “So now you acknowledge it,” he said.


End file.
